Almost
by ElvenPirate41
Summary: Draco-centric fic, set after the defeat of Voldemort. Lucius is dead and Draco will have to live in Grimmauld Place with his Gryffindor enemies of the past 7 years until he’s reformed.  Is Dumbledore’s plan a good one, or will it just end in ruin?
1. Almost

"Almost"  
  
Work: Harry Potter   
Genre: Angst   
Characters: Draco Malfoy   
Rating: PG-13  
  
It seemed to him that the bright warmth of the sun was a blatant and blasphemous mockery of the carnage in the streets. The stones were hot with blood that steamed off their smooth surfaces; red rivers flowed to cover the blackened stain where the Dark Lord had fallen.  
  
But there was no celebration at his defeat. No, there was not a single happy face to be found anywhere, not a solitary trace of mirth. After all, how could anyone find the heart to find joy in the victory when there had been such cost?  
  
Potter, miserable little Potter, was simply standing in the middle of the road; he hadn't moved since he had ended it all. He wondered what Potter was thinking and whether he was finally satisfied. He hoped so, because the bastard had taken everything from him.  
  
Hermione was trying to make him speak, saying his name over and over in a tone that because increasingly filled with worry, at the same time that she held Weasley's sobbing self in one arm and clutched a wound in her side with the other. He could almost respect her right now – almost.  
  
Professor Snape was sitting silently on the curb, his limp hair in his face. Remus Lupin sat next to him, talking quietly with a sad grey expression. Dumbledore took the hand of a weepy Professor McGonagall and gravely handed her a handkerchief. That oaf Hagrid was making a body count, and he didn't want to hear what number he was up to. Aurors were leading away the Death Eaters who had survived – like those who had fought the Dark Lord and lived, they were few.  
  
So many were gone. The Dark Lord hadn't simply killed, he had massacred, and the other side had not shown any more mercy than he.  
  
Arthur Weasley was dead. He was stupid, he had always been stupid. Too eager, he thought. He had been one of the first, and Ron had disguised his tears for so long. Now, he was crying like a baby into Hermione's shoulder.  
  
Crabbe and Goyle were dead. He didn't care. He had never cared anything for the useless sods, and he wasn't about to start mourning them now.  
  
George Weasley was dead. It was almost funny how utterly lost Fred looked and how broken up Percy was. Ridiculous, pompous Percy had finally been thrown out of his little world of offices and Galleons.  
  
That Auror Tonks was dead. He had thought her pretty before, despite her impossibly colored hair, but her face was twisted in agony and her limbs broken from what the Dark Lord had done to her.  
  
His father was dead. He was kneeling at the side of the corpse, cradling the blond head in his arms and paying no mind to the red pool that was soaking his robes. Tears ran down his cheeks as he begged his father to wake up, and he didn't care who saw. He didn't care if Potter thought he was weak of if Granger laughed about it later. Potter had taken his father from him, but he had neither the strength nor the will to retaliate.  
  
It was not supposed to end like this.  
  
He was supposed to win; the Dark Lord was supposed to win. He was supposed to be able to laugh at Potter's dead body, not the other boy able to stare at him and his father's corpse like he was now.  
  
He buried his face in his father's robes, muffling the sound of his crying and smearing the tears all over his pale cheeks. He almost wished that Potter would begin to laugh, or that someone would make a crude remark about his weak state so that he could curse them to Hell and back. The energy would not come, though, and his hatred was drowned by his grief.  
  
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Harry watched him, remaining perfectly still as if the crying young man was some sort of small animal which would be driven away by any sudden movements. He was somewhat aware of Hermione calling his name, but he found not the heart to answer.  
  
He was kneeling in a pool of his father's blood, holding a blond head so much like his own, pleading the impossible from a corpse. His eyes, so cruel and full of malice for the last seven years, were wet and red; his face, which had always been arranged in an unbecoming sneer, was now moist with tears that did not cease to fall. For once in his life, he was paying no mind to Harry, conjuring no dark thoughts in his head. For now, even if it only lasted a moment more, he was just a lost child mourning someone he had loved.  
  
He should have felt good, Harry supposed – he had just destroyed Voldemort, hadn't he? He felt like the villain here, though. As much as he had detested the foul, sneering Slytherin, he pitied him as he watched him grieve. He almost wanted to go up to him and say something comforting, but he knew that there were no words that could fix things between them.  
  
Harry felt someone, probably still Hermione, prodding him in the shoulder, but he ignored her. The blond boy's breathing was ragged as his tears began to ebb. He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his robe and glanced up.  
  
He looked straight at Harry, and his gaze was neither hateful nor accusing. He simply looked, unashamed of his red eyes and mussed-up hair. Harry wasn't sure if he should smile or tear his gaze away, so he simply returned the stare.  
  
The other boy bit his lip and looked away first. He gently smoothed the hair above his father's brow and carefully lay his head down on the street. He remained kneeling, though, as if unsure what to do next. Harry almost wanted to go up to him and apologize. That would have been ridiculous, though, he thought. He hadn't killed Lucius, and the Death Eater had been a terrible person anyway. He wasn't sorry that Lucius was dead, he wasn't sorry that Voldemort was gone and all the Death Eaters were doomed, but he was sorry that the boy had lost his father.  
  
"Harry!" he heard, and at last he heeded his friend's voice. Hermione's face was flushed and moisture clung to her eyelashes. "Are you alright?"  
  
He thought about that one. Was he alright? No, not really. But all the fear had left him; he was no longer a hunted man. He was just Harry Potter, and that was fine by him. "I guess I am," he said, barely recognizing the sound of his own voice.  
  
"Great," she said tiredly. "Can you look after Ron for a moment?" she asked, stroking his tousled orange hair. "I want to go see if he's okay." She gestured with her eyes towards the blond boy who was still kneeling motionless in the blood of his father.  
  
"Yeah," Harry said after a moment of surprise. "Sure, I'll take care of him." He drew his friend from Hermione as she gave him the slightest of smiles.  
  
"I'll be right back, Ron, don't you worry for a second." She walked over and kneeled down beside the young man. She put a comforting arm around his shoulders and he didn't pull away.  
  
Harry wished that he had half of Hermione's good sense. The cleverest witch of her year was what everyone had called her, but she had to be the most compassionate too. He almost wished that he had gone over there with her – not that he wanted to give the boy a hug or anything, but there were still wrongs left to be righted.  
  
Maybe later.  
  
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It barely registered in his mind at first that Hermione had joined him. The girl was unbothered by the unsavory puddle they were sitting in, and again he felt that he could almost have the tiniest smidgen of respect for her. He glanced out the corner of his eye at her face. She hadn't come to gloat, or to laugh at his weakness, so it seemed. Her expression was comforting, something he had never expected.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said softly, and put her arm around him. He bit his lip and swallowed, wondering what the proper reaction was when your enemy suddenly showed you mercy. He was sure that pulling away was definitely the wrong thing, and so he allowed her to stay with him. Her touch felt positively maternal, which was something he missed; he had no idea what had happened to his own mother. She could be dead, or in Azkaban for all he knew.  
  
He didn't care anymore. All that mattered was that he was not completely alone, not hated by everyone. Most people, he supposed, but not everyone.  
  
And so he said what seemed best fitting: "I'm sorry too."  
  
She smiled slightly and stayed with him until he was ready to get up. Yes, he definitely respected her, and he felt he could almost like her.  
  
Almost.   
  
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Awww! Poor Draco!!! Wanna review? It's easy... just click the pretty periwinkle button.... 


	2. Seven

This story was originally supposed to be a one-shot, but for ages I've been rolling the possibilities around in my head and finally decided to continue. I like this chapter a lot; we get inside Draco's head and get a different view of Lucius than most other stories offer. Please review and tell me your thoughts on this!

Warning: very brief foul language. Nothing you can't handle, I'm sure. ;) The rating will most likely go up as the story progresses.

* * *

II. Seven 

At long last the Aurors came for Lucius' body. Hermione stood with Draco as they moved the body onto a stretcher they had conjured and covered it in a purple shroud. They boy was shaking horribly despite her attempts to soothe him. When they pulled the shroud over Lucius' face, it was too much for Draco to bear.

"_No!"_ he cried, breaking free from Hermione and tearing the shroud away. He fell to his knees and threw himself over his father's body. You can't take him away from me! You _can't_!" Even in death, he thought his father's – his idol's – face was noble and beautiful. Lucius was the one he had looked up to, the one he had admired. He had been the most important person in his life. He couldn't be gone. He wouldn't let him be gone.

"Come on, Draco," he heard Hermione say, as if from very far away. Hands pulled at him from all sides, trying to pull him up and break his grip.

"No! Don't touch me!" he screamed , but it was no use. He was being lifted, and then his father's face was gone.

"Let it go, Draco, just let it go," Hermione said gently as she held him back. He looked on helplessly, too weary to do anything as they floated the body off with them.

"Absolutely crazy," one of the Aurors muttered. "Probably a Death Eater as well – someone ought to take him in. Then he just might be able to go with this one." He gestured at the shrouded corpse.

"Oh, take a little pity on him, Herb," said the other. "He's only a kid."

She sat on the curb with him for a while in silence. Finally she said as gently as she could, "Do you want to go over there?" He looked up to see where she was pointing: directly where Potter, Weasley, and several others were standing. His gaze immediately dropped. "No."

"They won't do anything to you. It can all be over between us... we could try and start over."

"I never knew you were such an idealist." Couldn't she tell he would not allow his already wounded pride to suffer such a blow? To lose the war and then go crawling to the heroes of the victorious side?

"I'm not," she said, standing up. "I'm just hopeful. Come on. You can't sit here all day wallowing in self-pity."

"Can't I?" he said dully, still sitting like a stone, his elbows resting on his drawn-up knees.

"Let's go." She pulled him to his feet; he followed in begrudged detachment.

Potter, Weasley, one of the twins, and little Ginny were milling about in what was more or less a circle. Longbottom joined them, and as he and Hermione approached, Draco saw that the boy's face was drastically changed. No longer was it anxious and foolish – no, now Longbottom looked far older; he wore the grey relief of one who has been swept into danger and survived. In fact, everyone looked much older, so very different. Ginny, even though she was just a sixth year, held a new maturity about her. Fred (at least, he thought it was Fred) wasn't cracking jokes for once in his life. Weasley's nose was as red as his hair, but his face was a ghastly white. His eyes were still a bit teary, but there was a tragic fire in them that Draco had never seen before. And Potter – he looked strange. Not exactly calm, but serene, as if he knew it was all over and no longer had a care in the world.

When they reached the little knot of people, both he and Weasley tries to act like they hadn't just been crying, tries to seem tougher than they actually felt. Draco felt that his old mask was sliding right back into place. It felt safe; it made him feel secure amid all these Gryffindors, especially since Weasley was glowering at him.

As if she sensed the oncoming tension, Hermione opened her mouth to speak but never got the chance.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Weasley cried angrily. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Oh, what are you talking about, Ron?" she responded.

"He and his lot just tried to kill us and all, or did you somehow miss that?"

Hermione took a step towards her friend. "It's _over_, Ron. There are no more sides, can't you see that? And he's just lost his father—"

"So have I!" the boy exploded. Fred suddenly choked, and Ginny drew him towards her comfortingly.

Draco had no idea what was making Hermione defend him. As he had understood it, she had hated him and his father. The words, _'What an odd day'_ drifted through his mind without his bidding.

"I know; that's why I thought you'd understand—"

"No, because it's not the same, you see – _my_ father wasn't a vile, wretched, cold-hearted bastard—"

Rage boiled inside Draco at this talk of his father, whose body was still warm under its shroud. He stepped forth and cut Weasley off.

"Sod off, Weasley, alright? Just shut the fuck up!"

"Are you gonna make me, Malfoy?" shouted the other boy, his face flushing. "Can you do it without your little sidekicks or your lout of a father around to save your skin?"

An all-out shouting match ensued.

"Don't talk about my father that way, don't you _dare_—"

"Bloody monsters, you and your whole family—"

"You didn't know him—"

"He was a Death Eater; that's all I needed to know—"

"—you have no idea of what he was like, so don't act like you do—"

"—and you should have died along with him and all your miserable friends!"

"I agree with you completely, Weasley, so come off it." At these final words, everyone fell into a shocked silence. Eyes dropped since no one wanted to meet Draco's. A fair level of awkwardness was setting in when they realized that another was approaching, although they had the impression that he had heard the whole verbal barrage.

Dumbledore's eyes were grave as he looked at them over the spectacles. Draco wished he would go away.

"I can see in your faces and in your eyes that you are children no longer," he said solemnly. "I regret that your youth had to be spoiled by such dark times, for innocence once lost can never be regained – so spoke a fallen one. Yet what the six of you and the noble dead have done today was and is a great thing. Though you have suffered great losses, you have helped to save thousands of innocent lives."

Draco knew he was not included in that six.

"And, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore continued, "I do not believe you will be giving us further trouble." It was not a question, or even an observation. It was a statement, plain and simple. Yet still Draco refused to reply. He wasn't planning on causing any 'further trouble'; he was just too tired. But he still wasn't going to give Dumbledore the satisfaction of his assent.

"I didn't think so," came the old wizard's soft response. "And so here you may remain for the time being – although we must, of course, take certain precautions. Your wand, Draco." He held out his hand expectantly.

Draco met his eyes; they were light blue and far too calm. He wouldn't hand over his wand. It was all he had left, all he had to prove that he wasn't so weak... but he found himself taking it out of his pocket and giving it to the headmaster. For what else could he do?

"Thank you," Dumbledore said courteously as he took the wand and produced his own. Tapping Draco's wand, he said, _"Reddere."_ He then turned to Weasley.

"Ronald, I place this is your keeping. I have placed a charm on it – it cannot be bought, sold, borrowed, stolen, or given away. It may only be returned to its rightful owner."

The redhead accepted the wand, though he acted like he didn't want to touch it. "Why should you want to give it to me, sir?"

"Because of those present, it is you who has most often been at odds with Draco, even more so than Harry. As I have watched you grow up, I have noticed that you have most often been the target of his words, and even now you were the first to protest his presence. Hatred is not a wise emotion to harbor, and yet you have good reason to feel animosity towards Draco."

"We've all got good reasons," Weasley muttered.

"I do not doubt it," Dumbledore conceded. "But it is you to whom I entrust this. I want you to keep the wand until _you_ feel that he deserves to have it back, Since you will take the most convincing, I believe that by the time you return it, he will be truly ready."

"So you mean he won't be carted off to Azkaban with all the other Death Eaters like he deserves?" Draco thought that perhaps Azkaban wasn't so terrible a prospect. He didn't really have any happy thoughts to steal right now.

"But he is a Death Eater no longer," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort is dead. And though you may have forgotten, it is only mid-May, Mr. Weasley. You are still my students, still under my care, and I may take advantage of that technicality."

"We won't have to take our exams, will we?" Hermione asked with a wry smile.

"Good gracious, no. No, I think you've been through enough. Exams will be canceled this year in light of recent events."

"Good," the brainiac witch responded.

_Everyone's changed even more than I thought,_ Draco realized. _Except me, maybe. I don't know._

Harry spoke up suddenly. "But where will we go? I can't go back to the Dursleys' after all this."

"Of course not," said the wizard. "And you need not return to Hogwarts – no doubt that would be too strange a feeling for you after this. And I believe that today has taught you more about the world than we ever could. I think it would be best if you returned to Grimmauld Place for a time – that is, if you wish it. We have been doing our best to keep the Daily Prophet's people at bay, but eventually they will try to find you. At Number Twelve you will be safe. However, I understand if you wish to return home."

"I'll stay," Hermione declared.

"I'll stay if I can," Neville said. "My Gran... oh, never mind what she says. Count me in."

"We three will, too," said Ginny. "I'm sure that Mum would want to go as well. You know, so she's not alone."

Fred shrugged. "We've been this far together. No reason to back out now. Besides, I think Weasley's Wizard Wheezes is kind of toast with half our staff gone."

Everyone was too grim to smile.

Draco felt positively wretched. He was a foe made powerless, now forced to be with those he hated most. If he had to live at Grimpald Place or whatever it was called – and the chances of him doing just that seemed very high – he didn't think he'd be able to stand it.

The seven of them were sitting in a circle in the middle of the street, speaking quietly when they spoke at all.

"So," Ginny said, mostly for the sake of breaking the silence. "He's gone."

"Who're you talking about, Gin?" Fred asked gloomily. "Dad, or George, or Tonks, or Sirius – but that's old news – or even Malfoy here's father? You'd better be more specific."

Ginny looked hurt, as though she was trying very hard not to cry. "You know perfectly well who she meant," Hermione rebuked him sternly.

"He's really gone, then?" Neville said.

"Yes. The prophecy has been fulfilled," said Harry softly.

Hermione smiled. "There's one prediction I'm not going to refute."

As discreetly as he could, Draco raised his left sleeve and eyed his forearm. The Mark there had been black as pitch not an hour ago, but now it was rapidly fading.

"No more worrying," Neville said. "No more looking over our shoulders."

"No more hiding," said Fred.

"No more nightmares," Harry added.

"D'you think he could ever come back again?" asked Ginny. "What with him trying to be immortal and all?"

"It didn't work," Draco informed them. The others looked up at him; they hadn't been expecting him to add to the conversation. "Nothing he tried worked. He thought that killing Potter would be what it would take." He stuck out his arm and showed them the Mark, which still stood out clearly on his pale skin. They looked disgusted by the brand. He didn't care.

"He's dead," Draco said, pulling his sleeve down again. "And he's not coming back. I can feel it. None of them are coming back."


	3. Scenes and Snippets

A/N: This chapter is pretty short, but I do like its content a lot - I hope you do too. The chapter title is obviously due to all the jumping around that goes on here.

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III. Scenes and Snippets

"You're a murderer," Weasley commented. Draco didn't answer. "Aren't you." It was not a question. "Because that's what the Death Eater initiation is, isn't it?" he spat. "To kill a Muggle, or a – a Muggleborn wizard? Well?"

Draco wished Weasley would just learn when to shut his trap. "You forgot the torturing bit, Weasley," he replied flatly. "That's the whole point of it. Keep 'em alive as long as you can. Flies in a web."

"So who was it? Some unsuspecting Muggle, or a Muggleborn?"

Not who. _What._ "A Muggle. A woman."

"What was her name?" Hermione quietly inquired.

He knew what she was playing at. He wasn't about to fall victim to some ploy of hers.

"I didn't ask."

* * *

Draco found his attention drifting away from the little circle. They held no interest for him, anyway; they were his enemies, and he just wanted to be left alone. No more stupid questions and accusations. His gaze settled on the two men who had not moved from their seat on the curb: Lupin and Professor Snape. They were talking quietly; he wondered what was being said.

* * *

"I just think you ought to know... after all these years and everything... I really am sorry," Remus said. "For all that we put you through when we were kids."

"You should be," said Severus, his words like a dull knife.

"I am," he responded in earnest. "It's rather late to say it, I know. But you know I didn't encourage it then, either."

"A fine job you did of stopping it, Remus."

The greying man sighed. "I know. Not to make excuses, but I was afraid of losing my friends."

"Better me than you, of course," Severus said sarcastically. "Not having friends and all that."

"I never—"

"Besides," he continued, "you mean you were afraid of losing Black."

A ghost of a smile passed over Remus' face. "But it happened anyway."

For several minutes each man kept his own thoughts; then Remus spoke again.

"I expect Albus will finally give you the Defense Against the Dark Arts job."

Severus shook his head. "Even if he did, I don't think I'd take it. The only reason I wanted it was in preparation for _this_," he revealed, gesturing at the remnants of the battle, "and... to make up for things I've done in the past. Things I've regretted. But now that it's over... I don't need to anymore."

* * *

"The public has the right to know," Rita Skeeter pressed. "I've got to get my story."

"I agree with you, Ms. Skeeter," Dumbledore said cordially. "Wholly and completely. And the public _will_ know in time. But you may not speak to Harry."

"Why not?" she said, trying to shove past him. "He can't hide forever, you know."

"He has been through a lot today," he said, laying a hand on her upper arm in a gentle gesture of warning. "He will not be seeing any reporters until he feels ready."

Rita craned her neck and looked over Dumbledore's shoulder. "Well, what about that blond boy? Isn't that Lucius Malfoy's son?"

Dumbledore met her eyes and spoke firmly, escorting her away from the scene. "_All_ of my pupils have been through a lot today."

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**Review Responses**

**samhaincat:** I think that yes, we will find out what happened to Narcissa... although I'm not quite sure yet myself. It's something I would like to bring into the story, though. There was a bit of nice Snape stuff in this chapter, so I hope you liked that. :)

**Jhaylin:** Well, I didn't really update soon like you wanted, but the fic is still alive! And Ron has only continued to be mean...

These two were cool and froody and reviewed the last chapter... you too can be cool and froody if you'll only review and let me know what you think of the story thus far!


	4. Dreams Descend

No spoilers for book 6 will be in this story, just to tell those of you who have not yet read it. I like the way this story is going, so I'm not changing it to encompass plot developments made in a book which came out after I started this. I guess from now on it's considered AU. So don't come yelling at me for depicting a certain character wrong or making some mistake or whatever! ;)

On a lighter note, I think I've kept you lovely people waiting for a new chapter for long enough. Therefore, here's a nice long one for you. :) By the way, this chapter is not beta'd, so although I'm usually good at catching my errors, any and all mistakes here are entirely my own fault.

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IV. Dreams Descend 

Draco awoke, knowing what he had to do: kill Harry Potter. He could do it, he thought calmly. He'd killed before. And this would get rid of the hateful little bastard once and for all. His wand was in the drawer of the bedside table; gently he slid the drawer open and removed it. He then lowered his feet to the floor and padded out into the hallway.

Harry's room was the third door on the left; he'd made sure to secure that piece of information when everyone went to bed. Draco wasn't sure if the door was locked or not, but he used _alohomora_ just in case – he didn't want anyone awakened by the sound of a rattling doorknob. Cautiously, he eased the door open and peered into the darkness.

"Lumos," he whispered, cupping his hand around the tip of his wand like someone lighting a cigarette on a windy day. He could faintly see Potter's sleeping form on the bed to his right. Now he knew where to aim. "Nox." The room grew pitch dark again.

Potter stirred, or perhaps it was just paranoia. Draco held his breath until the sense of danger passed, and then he focused. That was the key to the Killing Curse: complete, pointed focus. He thought of every nasty thing Potter had ever said to him, all his self-righteous sarcasm. Potter had landed Draco's father in Azkaban, and it was also the boy's fault that Lucius was now dead. The image that burned vividly in his mind was that of Lucius lifeless in the street while Potter still stood. Draco raised his wand.

_"Avada Kedavra!"_ he intoned, his voice low and fierce.

The small room was illuminated in green, the hit striking Potter so it should have killed him. But instead, he just sat up.

"What the hell, Malfoy?" he said irritably. "Just a failure at everything, aren't you?"

"You ought to be dead," Draco quavered.

Potter smiled. "Why, Malfoy, you should know by know – you can't kill the Boy Who Lived."

And then the room dissolved into nothingness that was as cold as a dementor's fingertips, and there were his father, and the Lestranges, and even the Dark Lord himself, all telling him how disgraceful he was.

"Taking refuge with Dumbledore's help, Draco? And fraternizing with a Mudblood?" Lucius said. "For shame, boy, a Malfoy should have more pride than that."

"What do you think you're going to do now," asked Bellatrix Lestrange. "Live out the rest of your days as a good citizen? They'll persecute you because of what you are. They'll all hate you and you'll die alone. At least we died together."

"You're nothing without us," the Dark Lord whispered, his eyes the color of freshly spilt blood. "Without _me_. There's no place in the world for a Death Eater anymore, and you're too weak to start another attack. You'd be better off just ending it... _Avada Kedavra_ doesn't hurt, you know..."

They closed in on him as the sound of someone screaming joined their words, and all he could do was silently beg them to say that it wasn't true.

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Draco awoke, this time for real, and in a cold sweat. He sat up in bed, his hands shaking from the horrid dream. He ran them quickly through his pale hair, getting his bearings. This was not his luxurious room at Malfoy Manor, nor the homey dormitory at Hogwarts. No, he was in Number Twelve, Potter's house, of all places. He felt completely drained of energy, but he felt the trepidation of those who feared what their minds might do if they gave up control by falling asleep. No, sleep was out of the question. But wakefulness wasn't proving much better.

He turned over in his mind what the dead had said to him, one point at a time. Firstly, the matter of Granger. What the hell had he been thinking yesterday, letting her comfort him like that? He didn't fucking need her to do anything like that, he thought. Filthy Mudblood. Aunt Bella had told him nothing new, really. He knew that even in the crowded house, he was on his own. And what the Dark Lord had said had been true. He was a failure, a failure and a coward. After killing that Muggle for the initiation, he'd...

No. He had sworn never to think of that. He forced himself to change the subject.

He was totally alone, he concluded bitterly. In the house with him were Granger, Potter, Weasley, his sister, Fred, and Longbottom. Ex-professor Lupin was staying with them as well, and Dumbledore had told them to expect many teachers and ministry workers to be coming and going. Draco had been disappointed that Professor Snape had gone back to Hogwarts to finish the term with what few students were remaining. He would have been comforted by the presence of another Slytherin, even if the teacher _was_ a traitor to the Dark Lord. Snape and his father had been friends when they were young...

Suddenly another face appeared before him: that of his mother. He didn't have to be alone, he thought. If his mother was still alive, then he would at least have some shred of hope left. And now for another positive thought: he thought he might be able to get his wand back. He _needed _it; without it he was hardly better than a bloody Squib. The only way to do so seemed to be to convince Weasley that he was repented (the very thought made him want to laugh; he refused to be beaten). It would require some pretty good acting, when he was actually inclined to do so, but he thought he could do it. After all, he _was_ a Slytherin, and while he might not have been the best Death Eater ever, he was damn good at upholding House values.

Still apprehensive about returning to sleep but very tired all the same, he settled back down into the musty pillows. Eventually, his eyelids grew heavy and closed, and he did not wake until the morning sun shone through his musty little window.

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Rubbing his eyes and thinking how lucky it was that his sleep had continued dreamlessly, Draco pushed away the faded covers and got out of bed. He could hear the clink of silverware downstairs; apparently everyone was eating breakfast. As much as he didn't want to, he knew he was going to have to go down there. And if he was obligated to do so, he wanted to look decent. Thankfully, they had all had their belongings brought from Hogwarts to their new place of residence. He kicked open his truck and selected a black shirt and slacks. Most of his wardrobe was black (though it also included a few greys and greens) simply because he liked the way he looked in the color. But now there was another reason: he was in mourning. He tasted bitterness like bile at the thought of his late father, but now he had to think of his mother. She had to be worried sick about him. He needed to send her a letter straight away.

Having gotten dressed, he opened the door to his room and peeked out; the hall as empty. To the bathroom he went, peering in the mirror to fix his mussed hair. A little water and a run-through with a comb made all the difference in the world, he mused. There were faint shadows under his grey eyes, but otherwise he considered himself presentable.

As he descended the creaky stairs, the sounds of breakfasting became more audible. He could hear voices talking quietly, hopefully not about him. He mustered every bit of Malfoy steel that he could, dreading having to ask anything of these people. But he made his feet take him forward, made his hands open the door to the dining room.

All sounds stopped upon his entrance. Lupin looked up from his cereal and offered a thin smile. The rest simply stared; Draco felt frozen until Hermione – Granger spoke. "Would you like some breakfast?"

He regained control of himself. "No. I'm... I'm not hungry. I'd like to send a letter to my mother," he said, tossing a haughty glance at his fellow teenagers. "Is there an owl in this place?"

Another silence, this one decidedly embarrassed, enveloped the room.

"Oh. Draco," Lupin said, standing, "it's... it's in the _Prophet_ today, about your mother..."

"She's dead," Draco said flatly. He should have known...

Lupin looked at him with some degree of kindness; Draco wanted none of it. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"How?" he asked, in the same dull tone.

The older man unfolded the paper on the table and opened it to the proper page. "The article is right here."

Like one of the Inferni, he walked to the table, ignoring everyone else and leaning over the paper to read.

_Burning of Malfoy Manor Kills Four_, the headline read. He continued, his face growing whiter with every word.

_War raged yesterday as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, met in the final, victorious battle against You-Know-Who. Yet this was not the only demonstration of war sweeping the wizarding world. Riots and skirmishes blazed throughout England, keeping what Aurors could be spared busy putting them out. These skirmishes were incited by Dark and, regrettably, good wizards alike; one target was the manor of the wealthy and influential Lucius Malfoy, reputed to have been a Death Eater over seventeen years ago. Indeed, Malfoy, 49, was slain in the Final Battle, fighting on the side of You-Know-Who. At the family manor remained his wife Narcissa Black Malfoy, 45. After it was reported that You-Know-Who had been destroyed, sources tell us that Mrs. Malfoy had gathered some of the few surviving Death Eaters at her home._

_A mob of wizards, in a frenzy of triumph over You-Know-Who's defeat, stormed the estate. Reports tell us that the manor was once Unplottable, but that the spell was broken with Malfoy's death. The mob set fire to the manor, trapping Mrs. Malfoy and her associates inside. One wizard who participated, who asked to remain unnamed, swore that he and presumably the rest had no idea anyone was inside, and that their actions were "merely to make a statement and celebrate the downfall of You-Know-Who." Three bodies have not been identified; Mrs. Malfoy's body was only identified by her wedding ring... Story continues on page 37._

Two photographs accompanied the article: one of his parents, and one of the smoking remains of his home. He stared in shock at the paper for a moment more, his eyes wide, then snatched it up and left the dining room without a word.

---------------------------

No one quite knew what to say after this. Remus Lupin sank back into his seat. Ginny bit her lip and stirred her cereal around with her spoon. A joke about how Draco had taken the sports section as well crossed Fred's mind, but he kept silent. Someone sighed. Hermione glanced around and then rose from her chair.

"I'm going to see if he's alright."

"Why bother, Hermione?" Ron asked grimly.

She paused, and then replied, "I don't know. I think he needs someone to bother." Picking up her bowl, she took it to the kitchen sink, and then hurried up the stairs.

---------------------------

In his miserable room, Draco was rereading the article, feeling a childish desire to scribble out the name _Harry Potter_ wherever it appeared. Biting his tongue fiercely to keep from trembling, he carefully tore around the border of the photograph of his parents. It was a nice shot of them, he thought, wondering how the _Prophet_ had obtained it. They were standing in front of the manor; his mother was smiling and his father was staring out at him with the look of calm superiority he had known so well. When the picture had come free, he propped it up on his nightstand. Footsteps were rising up the stairs.

_Please go the hell away; please be going to the bathroom or something and not coming here..._

He was not so lucky; a knock came at the door.

"Malfoy? I mean, Draco?" came the Mudblood's voice. He didn't answer. "I know you're in there – are you okay?"

"I thought you were supposed to be smart," he called idly.

A pause. "Can I come in?"

"No."

"Look," she said. "I'm really sorry."

"Great, Granger," he said coldly. "Because that makes things so much better." He flopped down on the bed. "Go away."

"Do you want some breakfast? There's plenty of eggs and cereal—"

"No, I don't want any fucking breakfast!"

There was another period of quiet; he wished she'd spit out whatever she wanted to say or bugger off.

"There's going to be a funeral, if anyone will attend it."

He sat up. "When?"

"Two days' time, I think."

Draco nodded to himself. "My family has a private cemetery near the manor," he said. "They'll be buried in the mausoleum. Someone will have to make the arrangements."

"Professor Lupin says you can see to that today if you want."

"Okay. Yeah. Later, though."

"Okay," she said. "I'll see you later, then." He thought she had left, but then she spoke again. "I am sorry, you know. Really."

"Then you'll understand why I want you to leave me the hell alone," he said, having lost all patience. Thankfully, she heeded his words this time. He exhaled heavily and closed his eyes, listening to her retreat.

* * *

Whew! So I hope you enjoyed this chapter; please review and let me know if you liked it, didn't like it, thought it could be better in some way, whatever. I just like feedback. :)

**Review Responses**

**Caladre:** Hey, my fellow 'Downer! Thank you for your review; I don't mind a simple "please continue" at all! It at least lets me know that people actually like what I do. ;)

**samhaincat:** I think next chapter or the one after thatwe'll be seeing some more of Snape and Lupin. Hermione will definitely be an important factor through the whole story. Thanks for the review!

**princessdza:** Thanks for the kind comments; I try really hard to make my grammar good so that meant a lot to me!


	5. Arrangements

Does anyone remember this story? Haha, it's been ages since I did anything on it, but lo and behold, here's a new chapter! I hope you like it...

* * *

"Is he alright?" Lupin inquired as he and Hermione cleared away the dishes.

"He's as well as can be expected, I suppose," Hermione said, directing empty cereal bowls towards the sink with her wand. "He didn't really want to talk."

"Understandable, to be sure. I can't help wondering if I should have taken him aside, told him in private." The greying man sagged slightly and Hermione looked at him comfortingly.

"I'm sure even if you had it wouldn't have made it any easier. From the way he reacted, it seemed as though he might have expected it."

"The poor boy," Lupin murmured. "You know that I will be the first to agree that the Malfoys were a bad lot, but to lose both parents in so short a time… it's a severe blow for anyone to take. The werewolf found himself thinking of Harry. Harry had gone through the same thing, ironically.

"Hermione," he said, looking around to make sure that no one else was around. "Have you ever thought that Draco and Harry are oddly similar?"

The girl started. "Not really, Professor."

Lupin couldn't be bothered to remind Hermione that he was no longer her teacher. "Think about it, Hermione; a clever witch like you should be able to see at least a few similarities. Both of them are quite bright, gifted Quidditch players, astonishingly single-minded when they get an idea into their heads… and now, with Draco's loss… both are without parents…" He trailed off, wondering if what he had said had made any sense.

"I suppose…" Hermione said skeptically. "But they fought on different sides. They had completely different ideals."

"Not completely different. Loyalty, pride, the desire to prove themselves – history gives us plenty of examples of soldiers on opposite sides being more similar than most people think. Or would be willing to think," he added, feeling oddly philosophical for just after breakfast.

* * *

It was not until well after lunchtime that Draco ventured downstairs again, in part because he didn't want to have to face his housemates, and in part because he'd been having a good long cry and he'd waited until his eyes were no longer red. It was strange – he'd trained himself to avoid tears ("Death Eaters are loyal servants of the Dark Lord, and must show no weakness," his father had told him) but now it seemed all his work had gone to waste. Just one more thing to dampen his day, quite literally.

He didn't see anyone in the kitchen, or the large sitting room. He'd been hoping to catch Lupin alone; maybe he could have even dealt with the Mudblood. But where was everyone?

Wandering through the unfamiliar house, he noticed a number of Dark artifacts. That's right, he remembered, this house once belonged to the Black family. He supposed there were worse places to be trapped – it was just the company that was so terrible.

He turned a corner and came upon what appeared to be the back door. Peering through the window, he could see everyone relaxing in a sparse but tidy back garden. Potter lay on the ground, Ginny's head resting on his chest. Fred was absently charming some dandelions to change color; Ron was looking on with mild interest. Longbottom and Granger were talking quietly – Granger! He could hardly believe he'd cried on her shoulder in his weakness. And Lupin sat in a lawn chair, observing them all, ever the benevolent one.

Draco narrowed his eyes and opened the door.

* * *

Remus Lupin had been rather enjoying the warmth of the spring sun. There was a peace in the garden that had never been felt in the old, ominous house. Of course, when the back door opened, the peace was somewhat upset.

"Good afternoon, Draco," he said.

The boy stared back at him intently, seemingly refusing to look at anyone else. "I believe there are some arrangements I must make," he said in a tone that was perhaps _too_ even.

"Yes. Yes, of course." Remus quickly rose from the dingy yet comfortable wicker chair, excusing himself and entering the house with Draco. "I think we'll find the sitting room most comfortable," he said. Draco shrugged and followed.

The sitting room wasn't very comfortable for Remus (or indeed for most people) even though the heavy curtains had been drawn and some cheerful sunlight nearly made it to the dark corners of the room. No matter how much they tried to clean up Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, it always retained an air of the darkness characteristic of its previous owners – _Not Sirius, though,_ he thought. _Sirius wasn't like them._ Remus absently thought that maybe Draco would find the room to his liking, and then decided that was enough. _These concepts of Light and Dark… they don't apply anymore. He's just a kid. _

"I know this will be hard for you to do, Draco," Remus said as kindly as he could. The boy gazed back without emotion, his hands resting stiffly on the arms of a musty old chair. "I suppose most people have to bury their parents at some point, but we never expect it to come so soon."

Draco replied without hesitation. "Father and Mother made some preparations. There are places prepared for them in the mausoleum in the family cemetery. The matter of their wills was settled through the family attorney, a Mister Justinius Prawley. No doubt he will have come to know of my situation. We may expect an owl from him in the near future."

Remus marveled – the boy's cold attitude reminded him so much of Lucius. He spoke so calmly, but he couldn't have come to terms with his loss so quickly. He was covering it up; he had to be. No matter how well Draco could put on the mask of staunch Malfoy indifference when the need arose, Remus wasn't about to be fooled.

"At the funeral," Remus said, "is there to be any ceremony? A service? Some words said, perhaps?"

"Is it worth it? No one will attend. All the family friends are dead or in Azkaban, Lupin, just like the family. You know that just as well as I do." A corner of the mask was peeling away.

Remus did not want to admit to Draco that he was probably right. "You won't be alone. Your father had many friends."

Draco laughed shortly. "He had many allies, you mean. Don't talk about things you don't understand, werewolf," he said, a cruel edge to his voice. "You know nothing about me or my family."

Remus could have reacted with indignation, and indeed, he had to struggle not to. Instead, he strove for understanding. Dumbledore was trusting him to look after these children, and wasn't that what Dumbledore would have done?

"But I know about grief. Every single person living in this house knows about grief."

A sneer formed on Draco's lips. "Quit acting like you give a damn. And tell Granger to do the same." And before Remus could tell him that neither of them was acting, the young Malfoy had swiftly taken his leave.

* * *

Harry looked up with concern and curiosity in his green eyes as Remus Lupin came back out into the fresh air of the yard. The man threw himself down into his wicker chair, exasperated lines on his unshaven face.

"What's up?" he asked.

Remus smiled faintly. "Mr. Malfoy and I just discussed a few arrangements, nothing more." Despite their gentle attempts to pry, he refused to say any more.

"He's _never_ getting his wand back, let me just say that much," said Ron, plucking one of Fred's charmed dandelions out of the ground and leaning over to tuck it behind Hermione's ear.

Remus sat up in his chair. "Harry, might I borrow Hedwig tonight? I need to send a letter to Professor Snape." Harry answered in the affirmative, and after that there was very little talking, for none of them wished to spoil the little bit of sunshine they had at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place.

* * *

My chapters are never as long as I think they are... maybe they seem long while I'm working on them because I'm such a slow writer. But it matters not. I hope you found this chapter to your liking, and I hope that you leave a nice review. Suggestions for future chaptersare welcome, too! 


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